Title: Fairytale

Chapter: 2/author not well organised enough to know how long this thing will be

Characters: Pretty much everyone

Pairings: Sephiroth/Cloud, Zack/Aerith, Tifa/Rude, mentions of Sephiroth/randoms and others as we encounter them

Rating: R overall

Summary: An angst-light fairytale about a cursed prince.

Warnings: Yaoi, het, violence, language, a cavalier attitude to historical accuracy, silliness and bloody Sephiroth being an angst muffin.

A/N: Summary says angst lite, but, as it says in the warning, Sephiroth is determined to make a liar of me.

Once upon a time, there was a monster prince. That's what all his subjects called him, anyway, after years of strange disappearances and blood staining the white stones of the palace courtyard. He believed them. He'd always known that ordinary men didn't need the flesh of their fellow men to survive. Ordinary men didn't move with his speed, his grace, his absolute precision.

Ordinary men couldn't see the things that could only live in shadow.

Ordinary men, he reflected sardonically, wouldn't be stuck listening to an aging military leader on the first day of the hunting season. An old military leader, with a paunch born of peace-time complacency and a waxed moustache, his voice an irritating snuffle. Sephiroth laced his fingers together, and tried to look focussed as the general sitting across from him cleared his throat for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes. It was a prelude to another lengthy speech, a rehashing of a ten-page report on nothing. He glanced pointedly at the stack of papers on his desk, written in a hand that shook with ague.

"I have read your report," Sephiroth said, cutting the general off mid-snuffle. "Do you have anything of actual relevance to add?"

The general bristled minutely and Sephiroth was sure he could see a phrase containing the words "longer than you've been alive" forming on his lips. Then he remembered to whom he spoke.

"No, Your Majesty," he said.

At a gesture from Sephiroth, he rose, bowed, and left the room with dignity. His footfalls picked up speed as soon as he was in the corridor, breaking into a wheezy run as soon as he thought he was out of earshot.

Sephiroth allowed himself to slouch in his chair. He'd been entered into the nation's armed forces as soon as he was big enough to wield a sword, as was right for a nobleman. His stern aspect, fearless nature and that bloody curse that was supposed to be a secret had propelled him up through the ranks almost as much as his skill had, and now the Queen had given full authority over her military forces to him. Sephiroth had great (and somewhat grudging) respect for his mother, but he'd come to suspect that she'd done it at least in part because it was all so tedious.

The door to his office opened on silent hinges. Sephiroth didn't straighten. There were only two people bold enough not to knock at his door and he didn't feel the need to be the Crowned Prince around either of them. To his silent relief, it was the one he actually liked.

"Come in, Zack," he said belatedly.

Zack was a moderately close relative of Sephiroth's late father (though Sephiroth neither remembered nor cared to what extent he and Zack were related) who lived most of the year in an estate not far away from the palace. They'd taken lessons, trained and hunted together as boys and, in spite of the curse and Sephiroth's taciturn disposition they'd managed to become friends. Sephiroth blamed that entirely on Zack. That coming spring, Zack was supposed to be getting married but he made a point to spend at least half an hour a day with his - often muddy - feet on Sephiroth's desk.

When his fiancée complained he brought her with him, and to Sephiroth's horror, she'd made daisy chains and gleefully strung them around the room. Thankfully, she wasn't around today.

"Aerith sends her love," true to form, Zack slumped gracelessly in the general's vacated chair, his feet on Sephiroth's nice clean desk, on top of the general's report. Its first page tore. At least there wasn't any mud this time. "She says she's sorry, she doesn't have any daisy chains at present. She's promised to make you a garland of roses and baby's breath for next time though."

"Wonderful," said Sephiroth flatly. The daisies had dropped pollen all over him and his documents. It stained too. "Doesn't your fiancée have anything better to do?"

"Probably," Zack shrugged one shoulder, grinning. Sephiroth sighed; his pale hair had been spotted with yellow for a week. Zack had met his match, and the country was doomed when they started breeding.

"I have other officials to see this afternoon," Sephiroth said. "Are you going to be here long, or is it another promise-of-future-torment and run sort of visit?"

"Your other appointments are cancelled. We're going hunting."

Sephiroth didn't even blink, though he could feel a wistful sort of whine pushing its way up from his breastbone. He loved the hunt. Deer, rabbits, foxes, monsters; the breeze in his face; the lack of paperwork involved; he loved it all. He gave Zack a narrow look.

"How do you know my appointments are cancelled?"

"I cancelled them." Of course.

Sephiroth stood and walked to the door. When Zack didn't follow, he turned and raised an eyebrow.

"That's it?" Zack said. "No protests, no telling me I don't have the authority to fuck around with your schedule?"

"No," agreed Sephiroth.

Zack's gave a theatrical sigh as he bounded to his feet.

"Then I came just in time."

Later that day, when the amber sunlight threw long shadows between the trees, Sephiroth and Zack idled by a river, chewing cured venison, the carcass of a levrikon nearby still steaming in the autumnal chill. It had been a disappointing first day of the hunt: Zack had noticed Sephiroth growing agitated toward the end of the day and encouraged him to kill the unfortunate levrikon. That had helped, but Sephiroth still felt an uncomfortable prickling just beneath his skin, as though his blood was trying to burst through his pores. He didn't tell Zack. It would only worry him, and Sephiroth didn't want to ruin what had been an enjoyable afternoon in the sunshine in spite of the bad hunting.

He breathed deeply through his nose and tried to ignore the pricking of his cursed blood.

Zack leaned back his elbows, his left ankle propped on his right knee and his wild dark hair hanging loose over his shoulders. He was uncommonly quiet, apparently fascinated by the scuffed toe of his boot.

"Aerith's trying to get me to wear new boots," he said. Sephiroth turned his head minutely toward him and made a vague noise in his throat.

"Yeah, unreasonable," Zack said. "They've only got that one hole in the toe, and it's not even big. Still. Do any of your boyfriends try to do that?"

Sephiroth wondered why he'd ask. Zack's interest in his sex life generally precluded any sentimental rubbish and Sephiroth approved. He watched a bird dive into the river and scoop up a fish. "They're not boyfriends. A relationship with another man would be inappropriate for someone of my position."

"Well, they're not lovers, and I didn't want to say conquests. So do they?"

"What?"

"Try to make you wear new boots."

"Why would they?" Sephiroth shifted slightly where he leant against the trunk of an oak tree. Zack gave him a pitying look that made him feel ill.

"Isn't that lonely?" he said after a minute. Sephiroth stared at him and he sighed. "It'd be hypocritical of me to bug you about casual relationships -"

"Very."

"-shut up. But don't you ever want, y'know, someone who cares about the state of your boots?"

"That redhead, Wythe. He cared about the state of my boots."

"The one with the nice legs? He was a cobbler! It's his job to care about your boots, you idiot. And that's not what I bloody meant."

The surface of the river shivered for a moment with the movement of a fish. Sephiroth avoided Zack's gaze, knowing he'd be looking at him with those damnable puppy eyes, patient and immovable as granite when he wanted something.

"Mother is trying to arrange a wife for me, as you know," he said stiffly.

"And?"

"And no one's interested in letting their daughter marry the monster prince," he snapped. "You already know all about this, Zackary, why bring it up?"

"I worry about you," Zack, damn him, kept his voice gentle. He rolled onto his left elbow, the better to look at him. "Aerith does too, you know. She likes you, even though you keep trying to put her off. I mean now you've got me to annoy you, but I'm getting married and inheriting a title and all that crap, so I won't be around as often."

Even though he'd thought about it all before, hearing Zack say it made Sephiroth feel cold inside.

"But who'll you have then?" Zack continued. "I keep seeing you with some little moron Her Majesty thinks will make cute grandchildren, stuck with those brothers of yours and having nothing to occupy you but the army and one-night stands. I don't want that, and I don't think that you do, either."

God. Sephiroth drew in a breath that only shook slightly. Zack had a talent for uncomfortable truths.

"I hate you when you're serious," he tried to keep his voice light. When Zack's expression didn't change, he sighed, a long exhalation tinged with a growl. "What precisely do you and your fiancée plan to do about any of this?"

"Well, since you ask," Zack brightened with a suddenness that was almost frightening "we thought we'd help you find a nice lover -"

"A homosexual relationship -"

"Quiet, I'm not done yet. We'll help you find a nice man with whom you share mutual affection and then we'll tell the Court that he's to be your valet and we'll give him to you as a wedding present." He reclined again, folding his hands behind his head with a smile. "And then you'll have someone to sex you up and distract you from your boring wife and horrible brothers when I'm not around to be awesome for you."

"You haven't really given this too much thought, have you?"

"That plan kept me up all night, you bastard!"

Apparently Zack's plan once he'd voiced his concerns was to make Sephiroth laugh. His next plans for Sephiroth's future only got more ridiculous as the afternoon wore on. Sephiroth's self control won out, but Zack sent himself into paroxysms of laughter imagining Sephiroth running away to be a circus clown. Acrobat or lion tamer were both too obvious, he reasoned.

Later that evening, Sephiroth went home with a smile on his face.

His smile didn't last. The prickling in his blood that had bothered him in the afternoon only got worse as the evening wore on. By the time the moon rose, his teeth itched and his fingers twitched, clawing at the air. He snarled that he wanted to be left alone and retreated to his chambers, where he paced like a caged animal.

I am a caged animal, he thought viciously. He ripped off his jacket, balled it up and threw it to the floor. His silk cravat followed, floating to rest with a grace that infuriated him. As he wrestled with his waistcoat, there was a knock at the door.

He didn't bother to modulate his voice.

"I asked to be left alone!"

"I heard," replied a woman's voice, unusually deep and melodic, and the clatter of heavy chains. His mother, the Queen Jenova. His stomach and jaw clenched painfully. "I've brought you a remedy."

Outside his door, there was a muffled sob that froze his breath in his lungs. He growled, quietly so that Jenova wouldn't hear, and flung the door open.

His mother stood in the corridor, alone but for a young blond man bound in heavy iron chains. His hair was dirty, his shirt ripped and sweat-stained, and his cheeks were downed with a week's growth of whiskers and stained with tears. When he saw Sephiroth, he squealed around the gag in his mouth and began his struggles anew. Jenova, tall as Sephiroth and towering over the average-sized man, delivered an open-palmed slap to the side of his head, never once moving her eyes from Sephiroth's. The man fell still, his pale eyes unfocussed.

"A remedy," Sephiroth repeated tonelessly. He could smell the salt of the man's skin beneath the sweat and grime. Jenova's mouth twisted into a smile.

"Don't feel bad," she patted his cheek maternally. She took the man roughly by the open neck of his shirt and dragged him into Sephiroth's chambers. He dug his toes in. The floor squealed beneath his shoes. Sephiroth stayed by the door, turning on the spot to face Jenova. "He was sentenced to death this morning."

Sephiroth wrestled momentarily with his self-control. "Oh?" he managed, somehow, to keep his tone conversational. "What was his crime?"

"Murder, of course," Jenova released the man's shirt. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her bodice and wiped her hand, her mouth twisted. Behind her, the man shook his head, his eyes bulging, and he overbalanced, toppling over. Jenova glanced at him disdainfully as she swept back into the corridor.

"Murder," said Sephiroth. Blood had been on in the back of his mind all afternoon and now it rose like a wave and crashed over him, images and the scent of red meat. His mouth began to water.

"Yes," she said. She tucked an errant lock of hair behind his ear. "My darling, you know I want you to be well. That man doesn't deserve to live. He'd be nothing but cancer on our people if he isn't executed. Do the right thing by yourself and your people." She kissed him on the cheek. "Be well again, my darling."

Sephiroth heard the man whimpering, could smell his fear, could smell his blood, god, and his teeth ached to snuff out that trembling life. Jenova stroked his cheek with cold fingertips. He barely felt it.

"Good night, Sephiroth," she said. He nodded, and vaguely heard the lock click as she closed his door.

His shirt was made of finely woven cotton, and chafed his skin like nettles. The man on the floor continued to struggle, to whimper uselessly, and even though he could still smell his blood, something in Sephiroth, something beastly, wanted to savour it. He shed his strangling, itching clothes and padded over the bare floor to where the man lay.

The floor was cold - he hadn't let anyone in to light the fire - but pleasant against his feverish skin. He crouched over the man, rolled him onto his back and put one clawed hand on the soft flesh of his belly. The man's whimpers turned into muffled begging. Tears rolled from his face into his hair. Sephiroth watched, slowly, slowly transferring his weight to the hand on the man's belly, pressing him down to the floor. He lowered his head to the man's face, so that his breath tickled through his whiskers. He opened his mouth, lips soft against the man's cheek bone, and tasted his tears.

First with his tongue, and then with his teeth.

The man screamed, high and long as Sephiroth drew blood and ripped away a chunk of flesh.

Appetite whetted, Sephiroth slammed the hand on the man's belly down. The man's screaming stopped for a second as the air was forced from his lungs. Soon, though, he was screaming again, gurgling, strangled screams as Sephiroth's clawed hand tore open his belly. Warm blood pooled around Sephiroth's fingertips. He tore out a chunk of tender flesh, marbled with fat, and began to eat.

Blood slicked the floor under his knees, tangy and metallic on his palette. He savoured the contrast with the mellow flavour of the man's belly fat. With his other hand, he reached into the wound he'd made and felt up and around under the rib cage. He found the man's heart, its desperate pounding tickling over his skin. A purr started low in Sephiroth's chest at his prize. He cupped the heart in a loose, almost tender fist and wrenched it out through the belly wound.

The man fell silent. Good, Sephiroth nodded as he gnawed on the sinuous meat of his heart. That screaming had been annoying him.

When he woke up the next morning, Sephiroth was curled up, naked and streaked with dried blood, a short distance from most of the man's mangled corpse. He staggered to his feet and stumbled into his bathroom, not sparing a glance for the body spread all over his floor.

Someone, probably Jenova, had already sent someone in to draw a bath for him. The water smelled faintly of bergamot. He sank gratefully into it, up to his nose. Years ago, when he was younger, the morning after what Zack called that time of the month, he'd spend several hours fighting nausea and dry-heaving into the chamber pot. Now, his stomach barely protested. His mind was another matter.

On the other side of the bathroom door, someone cleaned up the evidence of the previous night. He sank deeper into his bath so that the water covered his head and he didn't have to hear the clatter of the man's bones and chains being taken away.